Gibberish

There are holes everywhere. The number of golfcourts is rapidly rising (and they're destroying a lot of nature to augment their numbers; different kinds of birdies), but that is not what I was getting at.
The holes are more personal. Yesterday, as I was driving home, I saw an actual hole, and I started wondering.
Could I look through? Where would it lead me? It was just a hole: ripped in a plastic sheet that was otherwise put there to avoid views and tresspasses (les fenêtres). The hole was about as big as my fist (I do own coalshovel-sized forepaws), and it was not white. It was very not white, and the sheet was. The hole was not smack in the middle of the sheet: seen from the street, it was more to the right, though vertically centered. On a dartsboard, you might have scored a triple six (not particularly impressive).
Had the hole been put there for a reason? Was it cosmically relevant? What collision of molecules, genders or psyches has caused this local lack of sheet.
I was tempted: there was definitely magic coming from it, if not magnetism. I imagined a big sign (or perhaps it was there, and I'm imagining it not there as I'm writing). No other option, this I am sure: if there was a sign, it must have read: 'Anarchistische Abendunterhaltung - Eintritt kostet den Verstand'. Then again: maybe I got it all wrong. Maybe that sign was on the inside: dolphins might have been on the other side, looking at me and instantly understanding the meaning of life. Whence the sign.
I rode on: the hole was only a hole now. I wonder if it will be there next time: catching my eye, my I, or maybe yours.

I found more holes. Keyholes, holes in my stomach from worries, holes in paper to fit it into rings; loneliness is always a nearby hole. Some are there and some just were. But none intrigued me more than this meaningless hole. Tomorrow I will go for a walk and find it.
If you never hear from me again: blame it all on the hole. For the preservation of the human race in general, and my friends in particular, I will not be convinced to tell you where this hole is. Not even for three Chimay blues.
Maybe for four. And then the morning after.